Happiness
by PostScriptAfterWriting
Summary: England painfully remembers the Revolutionary War and the days he shared with his colony. America is oblivious. All he wanted was his freedom; all England wanted was America's happiness. UkUs if you want to look at it that way.


"You know you love someone when you want them to be happy...even if their happiness means that you are not a part of it."

* * *

The basement is the darkest, smallest, and lowest of all the rooms in Arthur Kirkland's home on the outskirts of London. It is a place he doesn't like to visit very often, but it is also a place where he can find silence and solitude. For hours he will sit down there, unmoving, lost in thought.

More often than not, he is thinking about America.

America, America, America. Alfred F. Jones, the self-appointed hero. He has changed a lot over the years. He is no longer the innocent little lad with wide blue eyes whom Arthur cared so much for. He is a global superpower now. Tall, strong, independent.

Independent.

_What an awful word._

America is independent now. He doesn't need his father country England anymore. He doesn't need Arthur Kirkland. Perhaps that is what hurts the most. Arthur closes his eyes, dreading to recall that dreary, rainy day but knowing that his return to it is inevitable. He remembers it every time he comes down here.

* * *

The muddy turf of the battlefield was churned up by the feet of thousands of soldiers, soggy and heavy from the torrential rain. The sky was overcast and dark with the clouds delivering it. Many men were poised on the battlefield, but only two mattered. They stood silent, completely ignoring the armies behind them.

One had copper-blond hair, smoothed to his head by the rain except for the irrepressible cowlick in the front. He was a teenager, though he already stood taller than the older man across the field. His eyes were deep blue, staring at his opponent with all the coldness he could muster. His self-given name was Alfred F. Jones.

The other man was older by several hundred years. He had experience with war. He was Arthur Kirkland, famed pirate and the head of the British Empire. His eyes were effervescent forest-green, half-closed to the driving rain. His bright blond hair was sodden and sticking out at messy angles. Despite having done this so many times, Arthur found that his hands were shaking._Why, America? How could you?_

Alfred was afraid, his dark pupils trembling within the deep blue irises. He wanted his independence, was that too much to ask? He didn't want to hurt the country who had raised him, but...if this was the only way... The young freedom-seeking colony steeled his nerve and called out in his strongest voice,

"Hey, Britain! All I want is my freedom. I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

Arthur lowered his thick brows and gritted his teeth. If America wanted a fight, then so be it! The nation charged, musket raised and pointed at the center of Alfred's face. For a moment, the colony was too shocked to react. When he finally regained control of himself, he had just enough time to bring up his own musket, holding it sideways in defense. Arthur's bayonet scraped into the wood, his green eyes smoldering with rage as they stared into Alfred's blue ones. The colony's musket went flying, spinning in the air before landing in a puddle with a splash.

The Brit's breathing was heavy. Alfred's suddenly calm, fearless expression only fueled the nation's anger. "I won't allow it. You idiot!" Alfred's eyes met his with an almost blank look. _Such arrogance, _Arthur thought irately. He fixed his pale, shaking fingers on the trigger, but found that he could not pull it. Images flashed before him. America, America. So small, so innocent, toddling around in his little nightgown, adoring his big brother's cooking.

Slowly, Arthur let his fingers uncurl completely. He was barely aware of the ranks of American soldiers raising their muskets behind Alfred. "There's no way I could shoot you," he whispered, dropping the musket to the ground beside him. The proud empire sank to his knees before his former colony, his face in his hand. "Why? Dammit, why!"

Alfred's expression softened slightly. "You know why," he replied softly, stepping back into the ranks of his soldiers. "It's over now, Britain. Let me go."

Arthur removed his hand and let it roam to his side, clenching discreetly around the musket again. "...N-never," he said, too quietly to hear above the patter of the rain. He stood abruptly, raising the musket and strengthening his voice. "I can't allow that. Never!"

Seeing that there was no other option, that the nation would pursue him no matter what, Alfred murmured grimly to his troops, "Fire."

The sheer number of bullets that pounded into him brought Arthur to his knees again. Few impacted anything vital, most of them lodging in his legs and shoulders. The nation flung out a hand, pressing it to the ground to hold himself up. He refused to fall flat on his face to his former colony. Arthur struggled to raise his head, staring at Alfred through his blurring vision. He bent forwards again and coughed up a mouthful of blood, watching as some of it spattered onto his fingers.

"I'll n-never let you go, America!" he hissed through teeth gritted in pain. The Brit glanced to the side to see one of his Generals kneeling there.

"Orders, sir? We must return fire!" The General blinked in shock, taking in Arthur's appearance. He saw a man with blood staining his hands and dribbling from the corner of his mouth. A man whose clothing and skin was peppered with bullet holes, gushing sticky red. A man with disorderly hair spiked up like an animal's. A man who looked half-mad.

"Cor blimey... Sir, what happened to you?" the General whispered.

Arthur glared at him. _They shot me full of holes, or didn't you notice? _He retched another mouthful of blood. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he rasped, "Retreat."

"S-sir?"

"Don't make me repeat myself!" Arthur snapped, but even then he still sounded slightly weak. Green eyes burning again with anger, he forced himself to his feet. The General looked on worriedly as the commander staggered. Arthur made it half a pace towards the tense American army, tripped, and faceplanted.

Alfred looked down at him sadly. "England...what happened to you? You used to be so...great."

* * *

Arthur feels his heart pound faster, his breathing quicken, just thinking about that awful defeat. Why does Arthur torment himself so? He could just as easily flee from the cramped, stuffy room of America memorabilia and calm himself with a good, English piece of literature.

With a shaking hand, the nation reaches out for the item lying on the nearest box. His fingers curl around soft fabric, and he pulls it to him, cradling it against his chest. It is dusty, over centuries old now, but still the faint smell that is distinctly America lingers on it. Tears spill down the former empire's cheeks, dripping onto the small nightgown. Blearily he makes out the red ribbon at the garment's neck, and sobs all the harder. It was a gift that long ago passed between them.

In the mirror, he can almost see something different. A young America with arms around his big brother's neck, both the boy and the man grinning. It couldn't be more different from the depressed nation holding an empty nightgown, the real image in the mirror.

Around the room are other items that once belonged to America. Toy soldiers, strewn between boxes, bent at odd angles. More wooden playthings, a rocking horse, a small bed.

And England's heart is in that room, too.

The nightgown falls to the floor with a weak flutter, landing with a whoosh that scatters yet more dust. Arthur seems unaware that he let go of it, still clutching at the air. With a deep, shuddering breath, he lets his arms drop to his sides as he straightens his back. Staring straight in the mirror now, his own reflection startles him. Green eyes wide, pale face streaked with tears, blond hair ruffled and disorderly. He is wearing his own sleeping attire. Dimly he wonders what time it is, or which haunting nightmare it was that made him rush down here anyways. He struggles to recall it, but cannot. It must have had something to do with America.

America.

"America!"

With an angry yell Arthur throws his fist into the mirror, and ugly cracks split through it at the impact. He sits there with his knuckles still embedded, bleeding and raw, his breathing still irregular.

"America..." he whispers, his voice a bare murmur of the past, blending into the haunted history the basement will always hold.

* * *

After hundreds of years, Arthur is more sad than bitter. He still makes jibes and insults the man who used to be his younger brother. _Used to be. _He hates that. It makes it sound like he's dead or something.

_I am dead, to America._

The realization is enough to make his hand unsteady, and the teacup clatters against the platter noisily. Arthur is thankful that at least the World Meeting is over now, and only a few nations are milling around the room. A strong, endearingly obnoxious voice startles him.

"You okay, bro?"

Arthur glares up at his former colony. "Just fine, America," he spits.

The blue-eyed nation raises his hands in surrender. "Don't bite my head off, dude. I just worry about you."

Whatever sharp retort Arthur had planned instantly leaves his head. "...What?"

"What?" Alfred repeats, confused.

"You said...you said that you worry about me."

"Well, yeah, of course I do. You're - er, you were - my big brother. I mean, it seems like you hate me sometimes, nowadays, but I know you're a grumpy old man and - oof!"

Alfred watches, stomach aching from the Brit's fist, as Arthur walks towards the door. If he didn't know better, he'd say he saw a smile twitch at the older nation's mouth. Keeping his green eyes carefully lowered, Arthur turns and pauses in the doorframe.

"America... I'm curious." He curses the way he hears his voice waver. "Are you happy?"

"Huh?" Alfred considers it, and then gives that silly grin, the grin that could light every corner of this world. "Sure I am. I've got my freedom, so what else matters?"

This time he's certain he sees Arthur's smile, though it quivers like a broken machine. A fringe of sunshine blond hair hides the Englishman's vibrant green eyes, which are currently damp and watery.

"I thought so," whispers the once-great empire, and turns before his clueless former colony can see the warm tear slip down his cheek.

_Your happiness matters. _

* * *

Ahhh Iggy angst. I'm sorry, that wasn't okay. Reviews are much appreciated.


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